Thinking Of You
by busybee6563
Summary: A fic inspired by the Katy Perry song "Thinking Of You". Was almost a songfic until I realised I do too many of those. Fluff, angst, drabble. Cute, fluffiness. Enjoy. More info. in the A/N. Don't forget to review! :D One-shot.


**A/N.** **Sorry for the delay in update, blah, blah, blah, but it's me, what do you expect? :P Haha, but to make up for it I have this beauty of a fic, and some little drabble chapters, which I shall upload one I've typed them up. So, this has been very much inspired by the song "Thinking Of You" by Katy Perry. I almost made it into a sonfic, before I realised i really do too many of those. You should be able to work out who, when, where, etc. I really do hate explaining when it's set, because sometimes it can be at multiple times...anyway, you should be able to work it out. I hope you enjoy it, and please, _please_, _PLEASE_ review. Even to tell me it's rubbish. Reviews make me happy :) x  
**

* * *

**Harry Potter Fan fiction - Thinking Of You**

I find myself subconsciously making comparisons in my mind. I see a guy in Diagon Alley, and I just can't help it.

"Harry's eyes are a deeper shade of green," it tells me

"Harry's arms are much more muscle-y than his," it likes to point out

"Harry's hair is so much…sexier than his! Can't you see?,"

"Harry's glasses are the same shape as his."

I sigh. Harry, Harry, Harry, a constant subject on my mind, as it always has been, my head wanting to find a substitute, comparing and contrasting, but no-one ever matching Harry's pure perfection. The perfection he has in my eyes. I'd set my sights on the highest goal, and got it with a lot of patience, and Hermione's calm, helpful advice. I finally kissed his glorious mouth after the Quidditch match he missed last year. It was perfection. Yes, people stared, yes, Ron was one of them, yes, there were a million other things that you could say was wrong, but for me, that moment, or what could have been several sunlit days for all I know, that moment was perfection. Just Harry and I, sparks where our bodies touched, with too much closeness for a common room, yet not enough to fulfil our need for each other, after the never-ending want we'd had. I'll never have my fill of Harry James Potter.

And then he told me why I couldn't work on getting my fill of him. He said I had to move on, and that we couldn't be together anymore. Somehow, it reminded me of the day Hermione gave me her advice. It's very similar, what they told me. I had to forget, to stop fantasizing so much about "us" (it would only make me feel worse), to date other people. Like before, I've looked, and unlike before, no-one comes close. I just find myself comparing them to Harry.

I think of him constantly. Mostly when I'm out. I went to Fred and George's shop, but it was just a reminder of Harry, of how he paid for it, my mind wandering to the almost painfully happy memories of Harry and I. Dean was there with Neville. I went over for Neville's sake. Dean and I are…well, we get on okay, but sometimes…sometimes he comes on too strong, like he forgets we broke up. They hugged me; Dean for a little longer than necessary, but all I could think of was Harry. What it felt like when his arms were around me, the overwhelming sense of relief and safety I feel in those gentle arms of his.

There was a day I was reminded of, from when I went out with Dean. It was towards the end of our relationship. He was trying to persuade me to stop at his house for Christmas, for Easter, for the holidays. Of course, I didn't want to. I wanted to stay with Harry at my house, stay with Harry at school; I'd stay wherever Harry was. Many nights since, I had let my mind wander to what it would have been like if Harry had asked me to stay with him, even if it were impossible that his aunt and uncle would let me. The memory faded, and I was back to thinking about Harry, the sound of his voice, the feel of his lips on mine, how his eyes lit up when he was happy. How I wished I could look into those eyes forever.

Harry never failed to brighten my day. He'd walk into a room, and I'd be able to feel my face lifting, my mouth twitching up, just at the sight of his face, the sound of his voice. Even on the coldest day in winter, when I'd had double potions in the dungeons with Professor Snape, the moment I saw him, it'd feel like all the cold had gone, and only heat and light remained, radiating from him, and him alone.

For Christmas, Dean had given me a bag of hard boiled sweets of a million different favours and colours. At first sight, I thought Harry had given me the same, but as I ate them, I found Harry's had a delicious melting centre that tasted absolutely amazing. I suppose that sums Harry up perfectly. Full of surprises and tastes absolutely amazing. And not only looking great on the outside, but soft and gentle and lovely on the inside too… I've never met anyone else like that.

Harry said to move on, Hermione said to date a few other people, but in both instances, I searched and I found no match, only feeble imitations. I suppose I'll have to look harder…

I had a strange dream the other night. Actually, I've had it most nights. I'll be sat with a boy, who's alright looking, I suppose, but nowhere near as good as Harry. The guy kisses me, but all I taste is Harry. The taste of _his_ mouth, not a new taste, the taste of this boy. He then pulls me in and wraps his arms around me, and even though his arms are so different from Harry's, it feels just like when Harry holds me. I eventually come to this conclusion, and look up at the boy's face, hoping to find Harry's eyes. But I never get a look. I always wake up a second before his head turns my way.

Every day, every single day, I ask myself how I could ever let him just walk away. I hardly argued. I just let him go. I even smiled when he told me. It was an oddly twisted smile, yes, but a smile it still was. I said one thing to argue back. One measly, feeble argument. But he pushed that argument away in one sweep, and I knew he was right, however much he, or I, wanted him to be wrong, he was right.

So I went out with the famous Harry Potter, the love of my life. It should have been wonderful, and it was, truly amazing, but then he did _that._ That stupid, noble thing, and I can't forget it. I can never forget. The exact memory, every precise detail of that conversation is burned into my mind, there, always there. Why couldn't I tell him? Why couldn't I tell him right there and then just how much it meant to me, just how much I didn't want it to end, just how much of my being loved him, just how much I knew I couldn't live without it, his touch, his smell, the feel of his lips.

How I wish that he'll burst through the door one day, one day soon, and tell me he can't take it, he couldn't take being away from me. That he would sweep me up in his arms and kiss me, his emerald eyes glittering magically, and all the worries he had were gone. How I long to kiss those soft, sweet lips again. Even if it's just once. Even if it's the last chance I ever get, the last time I ever will.

She put down the pen, and closed the book quietly. She walked to the door, thoroughly determined to do what she was going to. Driven by want and love and longing and perhaps pure idiocy, she opened the door and called,

"Harry, will you come in here a moment?"

She would always want more.

She would never have her fill of Harry James Potter. Not for a long while.


End file.
